


Willful Ignorance

by Cantatrice18



Category: Matilda (1996), Matilda - Roald Dahl
Genre: Canon Backstory, Gen, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:11:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cantatrice18/pseuds/Cantatrice18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trunchbull wasn't the only one to betray Ms. Honey's trust. Three distinct incidents where the community could have helped Miss Honey escape the Trunchbull’s reign of terror, but didn’t because of self delusion, self interest, or downright intimidation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Funeral

“Poor thing. Losing her mother so young, and now her father too.”

The veranda of the little redbrick house was dotted with people who had come to pay their respects after the funeral. In the corner, by a wicker armchair, a stout woman was talking softly with her paunchy husband. The woman’s beady eyes were fixed on a little girl, no more than five years old, who was sitting on a wooden swing that hung from a large oak tree in the yard. “What a tragedy. And now, to be brought up by a distant aunt…” her eyes darted towards the door to the house as though checking to make sure the aunt in question was not lurking close by. “Well, I wouldn’t want any child of mine being taken care of by her, is all I’ll say.”

“Nonsense, Lucretia”, the woman’s husband replied. “I’m certain that Ms. Trunchbull will make an excellent guardian for the child. The girl’s father certainly thought so.” He lowered his voice and leaned in slightly so that the surrounding mourners could not hear. “It isn’t well known, but I heard from the solicitor that Magnus left his entire estate AND the house to Ms. Trunchbull. Obviously he thought her well equipped to raise his daughter, or he’d never have made such a generous bequest to his sister-in-law like that.”

“Yes…very generous” said Lucretia, glancing at the child again. “Well, I suppose he knew best. I think I’ll nip inside for a few of those spinach puffs. We’ve got to go in a few minutes – Tommy has his piano lesson to get to.”

Her husband nodded and followed without a backward glance towards the lonely little girl on the swing. If he had, he would have noticed the girl looking up at him, her expression as bleak as if the world itself had ended.


	2. University

“Bizarre, I tell you. A girl of her potential.”

Mr. Davies, professor of mathematics at Crunchem Hall, sat back in the staffroom armchair and looked at two of his compatriots, who were seated by the fireplace. “Never seen a more dedicated pupil, and yet she absolutely refuses to even apply for university.”

“Crying shame,” added Mrs. Selwood, whose subject was English. “Her papers are always a delight to read, and she absolutely throws herself at any reading assignments I give her. I remember her saying to me once that to read Dickens’s ‘Oliver Twist’ was to live in a world of hope. I can’t say I entirely know what she meant, but she said it with such fervor that I had to believe in her sincerity.”

“Do you think perhaps we should… talk to Ms. Trunchbull?” Mrs. Applewhite was a timid little woman whose watery blue eyes and white-blonde hair made her seem as though she were fading away. “That is to say… well, she is Jennifer’s guardian, after all.”

The three teachers looked at each other nervously. Finally, Mr. Davies cleared his throat. “It’s no use, us getting involved like that. If the girl doesn’t want to go to university well, that’s her prerogative. She’s nearly 18 – she can make up her own mind.”

The other two nodded in relief, glad to have avoided confrontation with the formidable headmistress. As the bell rang signaling the start of afternoon class, the little group dispersed, leaving the staffroom empty and cold once more.


	3. Refuge

“Offered me 40 pence for it on the spot, she did, thrilled as anything.”

Mr. Tromble leaned against the doorframe, careful not to get any of the mud on his boots onto the carpet of his house. With one hand he held a bucket half full of chicken feed, while he gesticulated with the other. “No more than a handbreadth around her little waist, delicate as a daisy, asking to live in a shack like that. Dunno what she means by it.”

“Always an odd child, that one.” Mrs. Tromble shook her head disparagingly. “Must have gotten some foolish romantic notion about the place. The things young people find appealing these days.” She stood, wincing as her joints creaked. “No harm in letting her have her fun. She’ll learn soon enough, once it gets a bit chillier. And it isn’t as though she hasn’t got another place to go to; there’s that aunt of hers, for one, and then she’s got her wages. Teachers may have had pay cuts in the last few years, but I’m sure she’ll be able to rent a small flat somewhere, at least. And in the meantime, you’ve got 40 pence more in your pocket than you had this morning, so be grateful.” 

Mr. Tromble nodded and kicked off his boots, following his wife inside.


End file.
